Bidden to "scoop um," I did so, and immediately understood the 

 expert's strictures upon my net. The captive clung to the soft 

 mesh with a frantic death-grip, resisting all efforts to shake him 

 loose. There was nothing to do but lay the frame across the top 

 of the pail and wait for the prey to drop. 



Meantime the old Gullah had cast out and attracted a good- 

 sized one. Drawing in briskly but steadily, he enmeshed it. One 

 mild shake above the pail, and it let go all holds of the cold 

 metal. I became an instant convert to chicken wire. 



That was six years ago. Since then I have crabbed from docks, 

 dories, floats, yachts, bridges, and shore, and always found a few 

 hardshells. As for my tutor, he has turned professional with his 

 own boat and trotline, one of five hundred who catch for the 

 local Blue Channel Corporation's crab factory. 



The blue crab (Callinectes sapidus) swarms all along the 

 Atlantic Coast. No exact census has been attempted, but a sta- 

 tistically minded neighbor of mine estimates that if the national 

 debt were reduced to dimes and strewn through the Inland 

 Waterways, there would be from ten to a dozen hardshells com- 

 peting for each coin. Danger that the supply will become 

 depleted is remote, provided that the law protecting the female 

 crab in its sponge-bearing stage is observed. Each sponge con- 

 tains from one to two million eggs. Each egg hatches a micro- 

 scopic mite called a zoea. This develops, becomes a megalops, 

 and, successively, a green crab, a peeler, a buster, a soft crab, a 

 buckram, and finally the hard crab of commerce and sport. 



Five inches' breadth is the legal minimum, though rare speci- 

 mens may attain twice that size. If all the zoeae survived to the 

 hardshell stage, there would be no room left in the ocean for 

 waves. Various predatory sea-creatures take care of that; man 

 does his part. I have seen a commercial runboat return from a 

 long day's collecting tour with 25,000 blue-flippers overflowing 

 the tall oil-drums that serve as receptacles. 



Plenty remain for the individual crabber. With his cord, his 

 sinker, his net, and his gob of meat, he need never fear coming 

 home empty-handed. Salmon fishermen kindly take notice. 



That is why I'd rather go crabbing. 



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